


Strings of Tension Waiting to be Struck

by sinuous_curve



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Age Difference, Community: kink_bingo, F/F, Femslash, chastity devices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Frigga’s messengers have made an art of unobtrusiveness and Sif does not notice Fulla enter until warm breath ghosts against her ear and she hears the words, “My lady would see you, at your pleasure.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Strings of Tension Waiting to be Struck

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to lyo prompting, audiencing, and betaing.

It is ten days before Frigga summons Sif to her chambers.

A messenger from the lady whispers in Sif’s ear as she eats amongst the warriors, ale in hand and meat on her plate, laughing at some petty jest of Volstagg’s at Thor’s expense. Sif sits at the end of the table with Fandral on her right, included in the talk through his persistent good will and the measure of respect she has clawed from the unwilling hands of Asgard’s finest warriors. There is still, sometimes, more lust in the eyes of her fellows that camaraderie.

Frigga’s messengers have made an art of unobtrusiveness and Sif does not notice Fulla enter until warm breath ghosts against her ear and the words, “My lady would see you, at your pleasure.”

And then, for a moment, Sif cannot breathe and Full retreats away. By the time Sif recovers herself enough to turn on the bench, all she sees of Frigga’s most trusted attendant is a moment of her skirt in the flung open doors of the hall as she walks away.

Fandral looks at Sif with his brow raised in questioning. “Bad new?” he asks.

Sif shakes her head and settles back in her seat. Her skin suddenly seems not her own, flushed hot with the hint of possible pleasure in the relayed request. There ought be no secrets between comrades, or so Sif was taught when she first defiantly appeared in the training yards with her brother’s discarded practice sword in hand. She looks at Fandral and feels the momentary twinge of dismay when she opens his mouth to lie. “No, not all. Just a word from my mother.”

Fandral is the least foolish among the bawdy boys of Asgard; he saw Fulla knows she is no mere errand runner for any Asgardian to command. The question in his eye is plain, but nods in acceptance and tempers his expression with a small smile. “Then you should go,” he says. “I’ll make you excuses.”

Sif is the Goddess of War and sometimes she still feels as though the warriors who spring forth from her very nature look at her as little more than an easily discarded girl-child playing with toys. She is grateful, so grateful, for the moments of friendship she finds.

“Thank you, my friend,” she murmurs, reaching to clasp Fandral on the shoulder for a moment. He bows his head in gracious acknowledgement. It has never been spoken between them, but she wonders if he too understands the pull of unusual desire.

The revelries are at their roaring height of warriors yelling back and forth down the table as platters of rich, steaming food are laid down in such abundance that there’s barely room for them all. It’s easy, amidst the merry chaos, for Sif to slip from the end of the bench and make her retreat from the cavernous room to the wide, spacious hallways. She pauses there for a moment to catch and calm her breath and nerves, nodding at the polite bows from the servants as they pass.

The main route to Frigga’s chambers is well protected by a small legion of guards put in place by Odin Allfather, who values the life of his wife and children perhaps not as much as he thwarting any enemies who might seek mischief with them. For the many hundreds of years of her childhood and adolescence it was the only way Sif knew and, for nearly all others, it is the only way. But when Sif came to womanhood and Frigga’s eyes met hers across a crowded hall and stilled all other noise and movement, an attendant was sent to whisper in her ear of certain secret passages that might be taken, if one did not wish to be seen.

That first night, Sif followed the murmured directions she had been given with her heart pounding in her chest and the fear that any moment Odin or Thor or Loki would turn round the corner and find her. It was later, laying in Frigga’s bed, she learned that the lady herself built the passages. Her hands traced the labyrinth on Sif’s back, emphasizing their turns with sharp moments of pleasure, such exquisite pleasure.

Sif slips into the tunnel though a secret door in an alcove she never noticed until it was revealed to her. In Frigga’s hands lay power over the clouds. She told Sif, laughing, that there are many interpretations of clouding men’s minds.

It’s cool and dim in the tunnels, a sharp counterpoint to the wanton heat that shivers and shudders over Sif’s anticipatory skin. She knows the way by rote now; follow the passage past four branches on the right and when she comes to the three pronged fork in the way, take the left. She feels the ground rise gently beneath her feet and a sudden soften glow suffuses the smooth, polished walls. There are two steps then a golden door that Frigga has left open a few inches.

Sif pauses again with her palm laid flat against the smooth metal. It’s neither cold, nor hot, but it seems to hum softly beneath her touch. The vibration is a jolt through Sif that cascades down her spine and wraps around her hips and settles nestled there, pulsing with ten days worth of unsatiated desire. Her other hand drifts to her thigh and it takes an exertion of will to keep it there. Sif presses her fingers down with enough force that there may be a bruise when she strips naked.

“Enter if you will.” Frigga’s voice is rich and warm and it too curls through Sif like something alive. “I admit, I was expecting to wait longer.”

“My presence is never highly demanded at a feast,” Sif says, stepping through the door to Frigga’s chambers. It closes behind her with a soft hush of sound and becomes no more than one panel among many in the room. It’s exceedingly clever and Sif has always liked it.

Frigga sits in a low chair with her gown spread around her as though arranged by someone seeking a subject for a painting. Her hair falls loose about her shoulder in soft curls that Sif longs to bury her fingers in, to bring to her nose and inhale the scent of. The cut of her gown is lower than she allows in public and Sif can see the swell of her breasts. It is enough to make her mouth run dry and her face flush hot.

Warriors do not keep secrets, but no warrior has ever passed nights in Frigga’s bed as Sif as done and she would rather fight her way alone across the whole of Jotenheim than surrender that pleasure.

“They are fools,” Frigga says simply, empathy writ clear in her eyes. After all, she is wife to Odin Allfather and mother to Thor Odinsson. She understands. “Such fools, my beauty. Now shed that armor and come here.”

A hundred thousand times Sif has donned and removed her armor since she was declared a true warrior and it was given to her. The buckles and grooves are almost more familiar than her own unexposed skin. She has many times thrown the pieces on half-asleep when battled called and the roar of blood sang sweet in her ears. And yet she must be deliberate when Frigga watches so her fingers do not fumble and falter and play her for a clumsy child. There is always within Sif that desperate desire to please her lady, no matter how many times Frigga might murmur that she is as perfect a creature as Asgard has ever produced.

Sif makes careful work of it, laying the pieces neatly on a low table until she stands in nothing more than a tunic and leggings, feet bare, with her specially wrought stays underneath. And beneath her leggings, of course, band of cloth Frigga wrapped around her hips and between her legs. “No one touches you but me,” Frigga whispered when she did. “And that means you as well, my dear.”

“Much better,” Frigga says approvingly. She extends her hand. “Come here.”

Sif’s bare feet make no sound on the polished stone of Frigga’s floor. Frigga’s chambers are always quiet, a refuge from the echoing halls and constant beehive that is Asgard. Sif’s own chambers are in the depths of the warrior’s halls; at night she closes her eyes to her fellows bedding maidens through the walls, yelling over games of dice, and breaking furniture as they fight friendly amongst each other. Frigga’s rooms are world unto themselves. She lays in her hand in Frigga’s and Frigga pulls atop her, settled across her lady’s lap.

“Have you obeyed?” Frigga asks, slipping her hands beneath Sif’s shirt to slide up Sift’s side. “Have you been good?” Sif obediently raises her hands so Frigga might remove her tunic and let it fall away.

“Yes,” Sif says and her voice escapes from her throat as a rough murmur. Her nipples tighten at the sudden sensation of warm air and at Frigga’s hands trailing up and down her back along the laces of her stays. “I have, my lady.”

Frigga hums her approval. “I’ll know if you’ve not been, warrior-maiden.”

With an ease Sif knows she will never be able to replicate, Frigga undoes the tie and begins to the pull the lace free. Sif inhales long and deep at the sudden release of her ribs and and waist. Her breasts surge forward and Frigga raises her head a little to flick her tongue against one peaked nipple. Sif shudders, expending great will to keep her hips still. Already she can feel the swelling damp in her cunt.

“I swear it,” Sif gasps and Frigga laughs, low and amused.

“I believe you, my beauty.”

With one hand she releases the tie in Sif’s hair so it cascades down in a thick, dark wave. It is long enough so that her tight, hard nipples peek through the strands. With the other hand, Frigga cups one of Sif’s breasts and raises it to her mouth. A chaste kiss first, on the hard nub of flesh, then the application of her teeth with such exquisite force that Sif’s thighs sing with the tension it takes to keep still. She clenches her hands into fists she bears into the arms of Frigga’s chair and grits her teeth. Frigga doesn’t release Sif from the bite so much as seal her mouth around Sif’s nipple and suck, bringing her hand down to push past the band of Sif’s leggings and palm her backside.

“Tell me of your want,” Frigga says when she finally offers release. Sif gasps at the cessation of touch as much as she did when it began. Her body feels as though there is a thunderstorm low in her belly, roaring slowly toward a monstrous barrage that will shake her apart. “If you at all desire satisfaction, you must _prove_ that desire.”

“My lady--” Sif gasps. The muscles in her thighs and hips and cunt flex and release without her conscious thought. It takes a moment of ironclad will to force them into some shoddy semblance of submission so she might find her voice. She can feel the fabric around her hips and between her legs like it is a living, burning thing flaying her skin. “Every day I have woken and felt as thought I would die if I could not touch myself and I haven’t, I swear to you. It is like dying of thirst and holding the cup to your lips and never taking a drink. It is like starving and touching meat to your mouth and never taking a bite.”

Frigga undoes the twin ties on either Sif’s hips that hold her leggings in place. “Is it? Take these off, then, and tell me more.”

It is almost more coordination than Sif has to remove her tangled leggings with hands made so clumsy with lust it is like they have no sense of obedience at all. And all the while, as Sif shifts and twists and writhes, Frigga’s hand light on her body like strikes of lightening. Her fingers catch sif’s nipple. They trace the dip at the small of her waist. They catch on her bottom lip with a calm order to suck.

And when Sif is naked but for the cloth at her hips and cunt, she has begun to babble her aching need. “Ten days, my lady,” Sif gasps as she straddles Frigga’s lap with her naked skin bare to the world. “Ten days I have not touched myself, I have been so obedient my lady, hoping everyone moment you would seek me out. Please, _please_.”

Frigga silences her with two fingers pressed to her mouth. “Very good, my beauty. Let us see if you are as honest as you say.”

She settles her hands on Sif’s waist and pulls her up, so Sif stands on her knees with her legs spread so shamelessly wide. The wetness in her cunt has driven her to distraction increasingly as the days passed; a single glimpse of Frigga standing regally next to Odin Allfather was enough for Sif belly to contract hard with want and damp through Frigga’s fabric.

Frigga rubs her hands over Sif’s hips and down her thighs, drawing forth little desperately mewled noises of pleasure from Sif. She drags her nails up the inside of Sif’s thighs, then, until she can press the width of her palm to Sif’s cut and feel the wet seeping through the gauzy fabric she placed there.

“You smell of desire,” Frigga says, drawing back her hand and rubbing two fingers together. “I think you may well be dying from it.”

“Yes,” Sif says in a word like a sob. “Yes, lady.” Frigga searches out the clever knot she made and examines it with great care. Sif can feel the low, frustrated throb of her body swelling intensity. She thinks if Frigga does not touch her soon her flesh will refuse denial any longer and find climax on its down. “Have I succeeded?” Sif asks, shaking.

Frigga raises her eyes and smiles. “Beautifully, my dear.” And with a single nearly mocking movement, she looses the knot and the whole wrap falls away, bearing Sif’s cunt in a rush of sensation that draws out a groan torn from the very center of Sif’s chest. “Your chastity is beautiful, goddess,” Frigga says. “Nearly as much as your obedience. Now beg.”

“Please.” The word tumbles from Sif with such force she knows she could never have stopped it. “Please, lady, please, touch me; I need you so badly, please, _please_. I want your hand and mouth and I want you inside me and just touch me, lady, touch me.”

Frigga straightens suddenly, wrapping one strong arm around Sif’s middle and with the other seeking between her legs for her cunt. Two fingers intrude brutally and beautifully, the passage eased by the wet, and Frigga’s thumb finds the throbbing nub between Sif’s legs. It seems like a thousand years or a moment of that beautiful, excruciating touch and penetration for Sif’s long denied climax to thunder through her like a sword or a bolt of lightening and she screams with glorious release.

And through it all Frigga’s mouth sucks bruises to her chest and breasts and her fingers set a more punishing rhythm than any Sif has ever heard a warrior give to a maid. When at last she begins to come down, all her limbs shuddering with an exhaustion more profound than any she has ever know, Frigga brings forth her hand and drags her soaked fingers across Sif’s mouth. The salty taste and scent of herself blossoms on her tongue and in her nose and she licks her lips.

“Oh, my beauty,” Frigga laughs, using that same hand to pet her hair. “You are a marvel.”

Frigga leans back on her chair and pulls Sif down with her, settling so Sif’s head is on her chest and their bodies press together. Sif doesn’t care at all that she is naked as at her birth and Frigga is still fully clothes. She doesn’t care for the marks on her skin or the pleasant soreness just beginning to be known in her muscle.

She cares only for the slow little shocks in her cunt and the feel of Frigga’s hand running through her hair. The scent of Frigga’s skin and the easy rhythm of her breath beneath Sif’s ear.

“Did you enjoy that?” Frigga asks with a teasing laugh in her voice.

Sif hums. “Oh, yes, my lady. Though I really did think at times I would die.”

“What an end, though. The Goddess of War laid low not by iron and blood, but by the touch of a woman. It’s almost fitting.” Frigga kisses the top of Sif’s head and Sif makes a sound that could nearly be a purr. “Though, you are lucky I am kind.”

“Oh?” Sif forces her eyes open and tilts her head back so she might see Frigga. “I am?”

Frigga smiles. “I had thought to take my own pleasure first, but I did not think your flesh could stand the wait. We shall work on that.”

Sif smiles and pushes herself back up onto her hands and knees ranged low along Frigga’s body. Released from her own need, she can see things. The flush on Frigga’s breasts and the shadow of her tight nipples through the fabric of her dress. Her lady’s own lust.

She pushes her nose into the hollow of Frigga’s throat and inhales long and deep and, with her own hand, seeks the ribbon that laces Frigga’s dress from her chest down her center all the way to the floor. Sif yearns suddenly for the taste of salt on her tongue and the feel of hot flesh. “Shall we begin?”


End file.
